


distraction

by ConvenientAlias



Category: Shades of Magic - V. E. Schwab
Genre: Blood, Knifeplay, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 12:25:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13053960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConvenientAlias/pseuds/ConvenientAlias
Summary: Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.Athos is bored again.





	distraction

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Athos is bored again, looking for distraction.

Holland could tell him that regularly torturing your most useful slave is not a good way to go about things. It’s not that it increases the chance of betrayal—no, Holland’s hated Athos since before he became king even, and with the mark carved into his chest there is no chance he will ever be able to act on it. But torturing someone weakens them physically, drains their magic, lowers their intelligence.

The problem is that for all they value their power, Athos and Astrid are hedonists. They prefer seeing Holland in pain to keeping him in shape.

Holland tries to focus on the pain in his wrists. His wrists aren’t so bad. He’s chained to a wall of white stone, completely stripped of his clothing. And his wrists, pinned above his head, are rubbed raw, but that’s not so bad. He concentrates on the way the cuffs chafe, the way the skin right over his bones is getting blisters. Blisters are fine. Once they let him down from here, they’ll heal within maybe half an hour.

There’s a hand on his cheek. “Look at me.” His eyes focus automatically on the command. It’s Astrid. He should know her by her hands by now, fingers just slightly slimmer than Athos’. But he doesn’t want to be thinking about her touch, so he doesn’t.

He thinks about his feet. He thinks about the annoyance of how his soles stick to the dried blood that has accumulated underneath him, adding some vibrancy to the white marble. Most of it isn’t so bright anymore. Athos has been bored all day and he was bored yesterday too, and most of that blood has turned brown, as dead as the tiny chinks of bone mixed in with the floor. But there are a few spots that are still bright.

A knife shivers at his ribcage—prick prick prick—and Holland can see another few drops fall and add to that brightness.

The knife is usually Athos’ trick, but right now the hand holding it is Astrid’s. “I said look at me, doll.” Her voice is sweet. He looks at her. He’s bound to do that much. And then he looks away.

She laughs and puts the knife under his chin, angling his head towards her by force. She doesn’t bother to curb her force, stop the knife from sinking in, and the blood runs freely down the side of his neck. It’s not the carotid artery. They don’t care if they damage him, but right now they don’t want to hurt him too badly. Maintenance. They only pay attention to the basics.

Yes, the knife is Athos’ trick. Usually he would be the one to offer pain, and Astrid would be the one to watch and then perhaps to push Athos aside and touch him in a different way, sometimes gentle and sometimes rough, depending on the occasion. Usually Athos gets off enough from the violence and Astrid still wants a little more. Yesterday Athos carved deep lines into his chest, redrawing the same scarred mark over and over again, and Astrid waited until he was unchained and then told him to finger her clit.

Today it’s different. Today Astrid brings pain and Athos mostly watches. But now he leans in (always only a foot or so away) and licks at the blood lapping from the cut on Holland’s neck, following the trickle up to the source. Astrid’s knife is still poised and Athos licks under it and then over it. He doesn’t even ask her to take the knife out of the cut, even as he kisses the edge of Holland’s jaw. And then he leans back again and looks Holland in the eyes, and smiles.

“Do you hate me, Holland?”

Holland doesn’t answer. It’s a rhetorical question.

“Tell me you love me, Holland,” Athos says.

“I love you.”

“Tell me you want me to fuck you, Holland. No. Tell me you want to make love, because you like the way it hurts.”

Holland’s voice is completely level. “I want to make love with you because I like the way it hurts.”

He learned long ago how to say anything in the same voice. His voice is always even. It never shows pain, it never shows discomfort. Not when he doesn’t want it to. The Danes can sometimes pull screams out of him but that’s not the same as talking. When he talks, his voice shows nothing.

Unfortunately, that’s something Athos likes about him.

Astrid removes her knife from the cut. Now she trails it down his neck, tracing his tendons without cutting in. The cut in his neck has probably already started to heal, but it will take a while. She lets the knife rest on his sternum, arm relaxed, tip barely pushing in. It’s a pin prick.

Athos’ eyes have swept down, but unlike the knife they don’t stop on Holland’s rib cage. No, they go down down down, glittering and focused. Their sharp blue is usually the only color Athos has about him, but today Holland’s blood is smeared on his lips and chin, lending him a macabre vivacity.

“Say it again, Holland.”

Holland says it again.

Athos grins, red lips almost clownish. “You’re so sweet, Holland. You know I love the way you suffer.” He puts his left hand on Holland’s chest, right over Holland’s heart, right over his own seal. “Not today. But maybe later.”

He nods to Astrid.

Astrid stabs down and starts cutting up. She draws a line up to his collarbone. It’s shallow.

Holland thinks about his wrists. He thinks about the line where metal meets flesh. He thinks about the itch in his feet and the soreness in his arms. Astrid has begun to sink the knife in deeper. They really like testing how much it takes to make an Antari break, even though they’ve already proved, time and again, that it’s possible.

And then Astrid lowers the knife and touches his dick with her other hand and he realizes he made a stupid mistake—just because Athos stepped back doesn’t mean Astrid will. She doesn’t always follow his lead. And the pain in his wrists and his itching feet and even the wounds in his chest aren’t enough so he thinks about something else. He thinks about Kell Maresh, spoiled Red Antari brat. He thinks about his last meeting with Kell, only a couple weeks ago, and the wary way Kell had acted. They had met in court and Holland had spoken to Rhy and Kell had stared at him with narrowed eyes, eyes that threatened consequences if Holland did more than speak. Kell knows he’s dangerous. Kell knows he’s trying something with Rhy, and he doesn’t like it.

Thinking about good things isn’t usually as good of a distraction as thinking about pain but Holland does it anyway. His breath is hitching. Maybe Kell knows Holland is up to something. Maybe Kell is planning as well, setting up plans to counter whatever Holland does, whatever the Danes order him to do.

(It will never happen. Kell is soft and weak and childish and naïve. He’s protective of Rhy but still so innocent and stupid, and he still knows nothing. Holland will ignore that for now.)

Kell, the only other Antari there is. He is wary of Holland. He has a certain cleverness. Maybe whatever he plans will be enough. Astrid is crooning something and Holland casts about for a more aggressive distraction. Maybe Kell will actually attack instead of only planning a defense. He pictures Kell using one of the Red soldiers’ swords on him, sticking it straight through his chest. He would disable Holland’s magic and then totally destroy him—with his own magic, maybe, or maybe by just cutting his head off and throwing it in the Thames. Holland isn’t sure if that’s enough to kill an Antari or if Kell could even do that but he likes the thought of Kell ripping into his skin, brutal, seeking injury over pain and death over injury. He likes the thought of finally succumbing, drawing his last breath with Kell standing over him, promising him he will never hurt anyone again, and no one will ever hurt him either. It’s impossible, but he pictures it. The ultimate release…

“Focus, darling.”

And he is staring at Astrid, white cheeks and lips and gleeful blue eyes. Blood is still dripping down his neck, but this cut will heal, all these wounds will be gone by the end of the week. They’re bad at maintenance but Holland’s body has always been good at taking care of itself.

He doesn’t make a sound when he comes.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago but I didn't post it until now because it's dark even for me. Then I thought, what the heck.  
> Comments and kudos welcome.


End file.
